


Homebound

by koalaboy



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham - All Media Types
Genre: Animal Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Other, Psychological Torture, Scarecrow's Fear Toxin (DCU)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:07:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24618826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koalaboy/pseuds/koalaboy
Summary: Dead or alive, it made no difference to him anymore. Nothing made any difference. He had a job to do. Scarecrow was going home.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	Homebound

Jonathan’s head hurt. It felt like his brain was rattling around inside his skull. He couldn’t move, but his joints ached like they were going to pop out of their sockets at any second. He blinked a few times, letting out a soft groan of pain. Where the hell was he? And why the fuck was he strung up like he was being crucified? His religious upbringing framed his views, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

“Wake-y wake-y, Doctor…!” the Joker’s voice echoed through what sounded like an empty warehouse. Jon opened his eyes and saw big shapes and bright colours in the distance. Amusement Mile. Fuck. _Fuck_.

He blinked again, his vision returning to his normal without-glasses state; he didn't make a sound. 

“Wake up!” The Joker growled, his impatience coming to a head as he struck Jon’s stomach.

Jon gritted his teeth and glared at him something foul. No, not crucified — strung up like a scarecrow. 

“G’evening,” he muttered. He was missing his shirt, which exposed the scars that littered his skin. He rivalled Zsasz. 

The Joker strutted about in front of him, swinging Harley’s baseball bat around before striking Jon in the side. He hissed. His grandma had taught him how to take a beating, he wasn’t afraid of pain. His eyes scanned the room, Harley was nowhere in sight. That was good, it meant he hadn’t found them yet. They were safe.

“Jonny, Jonny, Jonny,” Joker scolded, wagging his finger at him, “If only you hadn’t gone to Batman with my precious little toxin components, we wouldn’t be in this big mess.”

“You killed my mother,” he said coldly. Oh, he didn't care about his mother. In fact, he was a little bitter that he hadn't been the one to end her life instead.

“If  _ you _ had just kept making my toxin—”

Jon spat directly onto Joker’s face, swinging one of his long legs up and kicking him under the jaw. The clown stumbled back with a loud hysterical laugh. 

“M’not makin’ anything for an abusive shitface like _you_!”

Joker stayed hunched over for a moment before he pulled a gun from his suit, spinning around, he aimed it directly at Jon’s chest,  “Now, that wasn’t very nice!”

Jon smiled at him, the same smile he had given him in Arkham. It was fearless. Unfortunately, it did nothing but annoy Joker. He liked to make people scared, to make them beg. 

“You think I fear death, clown? That I fear pain? And from you of all people?"

Joker stood back, nodding with an amused smile. Suddenly, his voice dropped to a serious tone. It was the kind of mood swings that he faked in order to push his ‘crazy’ facade. Jon had just about had enough.

“Tell me where you’re hiding my precious Harley and that little sister of yours. You can whisper it in my ear, I won't tell anyone."

Jon rolled his eyes, “You don’t fool me with that act. You’ve never lost touch with reality, you’re just a fucked up little man who should’ve seen the electric chair years ago.”

Joker seemed to stiffen, looking up at the other man with anger in his eyes. He was right, of course.  Quickly, he recovered, skipping gleefully to behind Jon as he hummed to himself. Jon heard the flapping of wings, the smacking of a beak together, and familiar screeching. He froze, his heart racing in his chest. Oh god. Oh god, no.

Joker came back into view, holding Ichabod upside down by her feet like a chicken ready for the slaughter. She flapped her wings wildly. She was terrified. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay, baby,” Jon cooed frantically. He felt sick, his breathing quickened, adrenaline pulsed through his body. 

“Sing a song of sixpence,” Joker sang, voice wavering with glee and giggles interrupting the tune, “A pocket full of rye. Four and twenty black birds baked in a pie!”

At the conclusion of the verse, he pressed the tip of his gun against Ichabod’s tiny body. She pecked at him and squawked, almost crying out to Jon for help.

“Where’s Harley, Professor Crane? Where are you hiding her?”

Jonathan kept his eyes on Ichabod. He could feel panic gripping at his lungs.

Joker’s finger tightened on the trigger, “Final chance.”

“I’m sorry, Icky,” he murmured.

Ichabod stretched up and dug her sharp beak into Joker’s wrist. She drew blood. Joker yelped and let her go and she flew, heading for the open window. He growled and took aim. The gunshot rang out and clipped through her wing, her flight stuttered, but she made it out. A few feathers drifted down after her. Her blood was fresh in the air. Ichabod was his lifeline, his oldest friend, his anchor to sanity, the one thing he truly cared about. Caring for her had kept him alive. And now she was gone, lost or dead, but definitely terrified. He wanted to scream, but he wouldn’t let Joker have that satisfaction.

“I’m going to fucking kill you,” Jon grit out through clenched teeth as tears poured down his cheeks. They were hot and angry. He thrashed about against his restraints. Fucking bastard. 

“Oh, shhh,” Joker hushed him, cupping his cheek and smearing some of the blood Ichabod drew over his face. Someone behind him pushed a thin butterfly needle into his arm. He winced, craning his head to look. The needle was attached to a tube which ran to a hospital IV pump. The bag was filled with green liquid that Jon immediately recognised.

“I borrowed a little something from your lectures, I hope you don’t mind,” Joker began, a wicked smile forcing leathery, clammy skin over his teeth. It made an awful squishing sound as they rubbed against his thick saliva. There was no use talking like he had lost his mind if it didn't do anything to fool Jon. “Fear holds us back, doesn’t it? I miss when you didn’t _care_. We do things out of fear, after all. Scared that we won’t fit in, scared that it would be impolite, scared that friendships with our former students will break if we, say, brought them back to me.”

“Fear… is a tool,” he tried to correct him, but another blow to his ribs forced the air out of his lungs. 

“Bring me Harley and I’ll leave Mia alone,” Joker held up three fingers of his gloved hand, “Clown's honour.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“See? There’s that pesky fear again, Doctor. But don’t you worry, you just let Joker get rid of that for you.” 

He hummed, pressing a few buttons on the pump. A madman would have turned it all the way up to see what happened, but Joker was smart - he kept it steady so the toxin wouldn’t overload any veins. He knew exactly what he was doing. The pump beeped. Joker pressed start. The liquid moved, creeping its way up the tube and burning as it entered Jon’s vein. Almost immediately the effects began. His heart beat in his chest, in his ears. The corners of his vision went black and then vibrated furiously. He began to sweat and shake, his breathing sharp and short. He fought it as best he could, but the dosage kept going, kept coming until he had to submit. 

He screamed. 

Joker laughed. 

He thrashed against restraints, rubbing his wrists raw in the process and dislocating fingers. 

Joker laughed. 

He cried, a hideous decaying carcass of Ichabod flooding his mind. He saw his Granny, the cornfields, the ravens from the chapel that pecked him half to death and tore at open wounds with their hungry beaks. And all he could hear was Joker’s laughter. It felt like days. Jon’s consciousness faded in and out. The IV bag was empty after an hour. They added another one. At some point he felt himself being strapped to a bed. He’d wet himself, probably defecated too. 

Joker rocked on a seat, watching him in the makeshift infirmary in amusement mile. He hummed and waved at him. Jon ignored him. As his body adjusted with his fear response exhausted, he was able to stop his writhing. His mind came back to him first and his breathing became steady. He stared at the ceiling until his body stopped shaking. He stilled. Calm. Relief. Numbness. It felt wonderful, comparatively speaking. He yanked his wrist out of the restraint and undid the rest of the buckles that held him in place. He moved silently, bare feet not making a sound on the cold floor. 

Joker jumped out from behind a corner, “Good morning, sunshine!”

Jon stared at him blankly, “Clothes.”

He led him down a corridor to a smaller room that used to be a mirror maze. Jon ignored his own reflection and kept his eyes on the clown. On a table laid his scarecrow costume, vials of the toxin, and his scythe. 

“I had my boys raid the GCPD, hope you don’t mind.”

Jon grunted and rid himself of his old clothes, pulling the familiar fabric over his body. He was glad to find his old steel-toed boots. He attached the mechanical fixtures that held the toxin in place to his arm, and dumped the rest of his things into a duffle bag. It would be a long drive to Georgia and it would be even longer if he clipped the syringes to his fingers.

“Truck’s outside?”

“Of course,” Joker said, a malicious grin on his face, “You remember our deal-io, right, Jonny?”

Jon locked eyes with the reflection of Joker and used it to gage his next move. He ducked low, catching him off guard and swinging long limbs around with great momentum to knock the clown to the ground. He held him there, boot digging into his face as he grabbed his arm and, leveraging it at such an angle, pulled up and back until there was a loud snap of bones. Joker screamed, all hints of humour lost on him. Jon produced a gun, which he had stolen from the other’s pocket during his initial attack, and fired three times into his arm. 

“You are fucking insane!” 

_At least one of us belongs in Arkham_ , he thought. He tilted his head and leaned close, “Don't break my bird's wing, little fool.”

He let him go and took his things, swinging his scythe up and over his shoulders with practiced ease. He paused as he made his way out of the building, approaching the window that Ichabod had flown out of. He looked down for a body, but found a feather instead. He picked it up and tucked it into the fabric near his heart. Dead or alive, it made no difference to him anymore. Nothing made any difference. He had a job to do. Scarecrow was going home.


End file.
